Once in a great while, a special person emerges in the history of science and medicine whose unique set of characteristics sheds light on an entire disorder and sometimes even on the mysteries of the human brain. Tito is such a person. Although he has severe autism and is nearly nonverbal, his ability to communicate through his extraordinary writing is astonishing.

Tito communicates eloquently through his writing and he has gained national recognition for his poetry. He has published his book of memoirs and poems, and plans to pursue a career as a professional writer.

Tito Video Clip - February 2006

Click below to watch a recent video clip of Tito writing. Currently, Soma's mode of prompt for Tito is uttering the last word or letter which he has spoken, then he goes to the next letter or word.

Early Writings

(from the Mind Tree, Arcade Publishing, 2003, National Autistic Society)Maybe it is nightMaybe it is dayI can't be sureBecause I'm not yet feeling the heat of the sunI am the mind treeWhen I had been gifted this mind of mineI recall his voice very clearlyTo you I have given this mindAnd you shall be the only kindNo one ever will like you beAnd I name you the mind treeI can't see or talkYet I can imagineI can hope and I can expectI am able to feel pain but I cannot crySo I just be and wait for the pain to subsideI can do nothing but waitMy concerns and worriesAre trapped within me somewhere in my depthsMaybe in my rootsMaybe in my barkWhen he comes next who gifted me my mindI shall ask him for the gift of sightI doubt his return andYet hope for itMaybe he willMaybe he will not

(from "Tito's Story", a video documentary by the BBC, April 2000)Men and women are puzzled by everything I doDoctors use different terminologies to describe meI just wonderThe thoughts are bigger than I can expressEvery move that I make shows how trapped I feelUnder the continuous flow of happeningsThe effect of a cause becomes the cause of another effectAnd I wonderI think about the times when I change the environment around meWith the help of my imaginationI can go places that do not existAnd they are like beautiful dreams.But it is a world full of improbabilitiesRacing toward uncertainty

(from "Tito's Story", a video documentary by the BBC, April 2000)When you are trying to think blueAnd end up thinking blackYou can be sure to be frustratedTime and again it happens to meAnd I get quite helplessOtherwise why should I get up and spin myselfSpinning my bodyBrings some sort of harmony to my thoughtsSo that I can centrifuge away all of the black thoughtsI realise that the faster I spinThe faster I drive away the blackWhen I am sure that even the last speck of blackHas gone away from meThen I spin back in the opposite directionAnd pull the blue thoughts into myselfIt depends on how much blue I wantIf I want more blue I have to spin fasterOtherwise not so fastIt's just like being a fanThe trouble is when I stop spinningMy body scattersAnd it's so difficult to collect it together again

Recent writings

I was playing with the door hinge since early noon today. I knew nothing could stop me from playing.They had all given up trying. They had requested me at first and then they had tried to pull me out.Nothing stopped me.Not even the two pm strike of the clock.Not even the rain.

It had started raining since noon. The window brought in all that cool air that had been waiting to come in, and all the damp smell of wet earth inside the room. I am sure the hinge on the door with which I was playing could smell it too.

It never tells me anything. But I somehow know that it can sense every thing I sense.It sensed the orange colour spreading with the two pm strike of clock as it filled up the room.Every time the clock strikes two, both of us get prepared.We get prepared for the orange light to come to us from the clock. The orange light joins us in our secret game.

The door hinge senses the gradual spreading of the orange colour through the mirror till every thing in the room is coloured with orange.The green frame of the mirror gets the orange colour before any thing else. After that, the white walls begin to turn orange. Only then can the window and everything outside the window get to colour themselves with orange. Every one needs to wait for our turns to be coloured with orange light.

The door hinge can understand everything.But now the door hinge was sticky.The door hinge becomes sort of sticky whenever it knows that it is raining. I doubt whether it really likes the rain. It is fond of the wind. I can just guess that.I have seen it slamming with joy when there is wind.

I guess that the door hinge tried to gather the orange colour of the two pm afternoon although the damp air prevented the colour from diffusing it completely because the grey colour of the rain was too strong for the orange to spread evenly as it does every day.

I saw the colours trying to gain strength. Sometimes it seemed as though the grey would empower the orange.The war grew in width and depth inside my room and outside the window. I felt my breaths inhaling and exhaling the colours and felt the battle within me.I knew the door hinge was getting alarmed.I heard it creek. It was trying to warn the clock about the colour battle.I had banged the door hard for my part so that the out side grey of the rain could be warned. I wanted to shout. But I could only shout through the slam of the door.The colours had understood the cause.They stopped their little war.I saw the rain drops getting coloured with orange.The door hinge had stopped the creek.